The Red Line Read online

  “Do you think the Russians might be considering an attack?” Marconi said.

  “Up until two days ago, Michael, I would have said no way, no way at all. But when they evacuated all American dependents living within one hundred miles of the border and ordered us to move three of the Bradleys up to reinforce the towers, I began to have my doubts. Now a Russian general has charged the wire. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Look at him sitting there checking us out,” Foster said. “Just like he owns the place.”

  “At the moment, with six hundred armored vehicles to back him up, I’m afraid he does.”

  “But, Sarge, if the Russians were thinking about an attack, wouldn’t we be on full alert?” Marconi said.

  “You’d certainly hope so . . . Look, I know it’s impossible to do when you’re staring into the muzzle of a T-90’s main gun, but you two need to take a deep breath and relax. I suspect this is nothing more than some kind of sick Russian joke. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Even the Russians aren’t stupid enough to risk a war. This general’s just getting his kicks at our expense.”

  “You’re probably right, Sarge,” Foster said. “But even so, are you certain you want to leave Ramirez and Steele alone in this tower for the next two hours?”

  “I never want to leave those two alone anywhere. Every time I bring them out here, I’m convinced that given a couple of hours to work on it, one of them’s bound to accidentally shoot the other before I get back. Even so, Lieutenant Powers thinks it’s good for morale to let you guys pick who you go up in the towers with.”

  “But, Sarge, there weren’t Russian tanks everywhere you looked when the lieutenant made that decision.”

  “Well, I’ve got a solution. You two could stay here and take their places. Ready to climb back up that ladder?”

  “Not me,” Marconi said. “Another couple of hours out here freezing my ass off, and I might go up to the wire and beg that Russian tank to do me a favor and shoot me.”

  “And I’d probably go with him,” Foster said. “I suspect Becky would never forgive you if you let that happen.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Jensen said. “Let’s head back to the platoon building and get warmed up.”

  “I’m all for that, but what about them?” Foster said. He motioned toward the Russian tank.

  “Leave ’em there,” Jensen said. “Brown’s got a TOW aimed at them. If they do anything halfway threatening, I guarantee you there’ll be one less T-90 to worry about.”

  The trio climbed into the cab of the platoon sergeant’s Humvee. Jensen pulled away from the tower and headed west across the two hundred yards of barren ground that would take them to the edge of a thick forest.

  • • •

  “There he goes, Comrade Commander.”

  “Yes, Dmetri, I see.”

  The Russian tank crew watched as the small vehicle churned through the snows toward the narrow trail that would return the cavalry soldiers to their home.

  “Crushing the token enemy border force is going to be so easy,” the tank’s gunner said.

  “I wish I had your confidence, Dmetri. But I’m not so sure. Did you see the American when we made our charge? It didn’t affect him at all. There can be little doubt about that one’s courage. And there’s no doubt he knows what he’s doing. Do not underestimate our opponent. I assure you that before this is over, he’ll have proven himself to be an able adversary.”

  “Comrade Commander, what I assure you is the next time you see the American, his bloody body will be lying in the snows. And we’ll be on our way to conquering Germany.”

  “We shall see, Dmetri. We shall see.”

  Upon locating the opening to the constricted trail, the Humvee disappeared into the dense woods.

  “Okay, Josef, I’ve seen what I needed to see. Back up slowly and get us out of here.”

  “Yes, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s driver said.

  CHAPTER 2

  January 28—10:32 p.m.

  2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

  The German-Czech Border

  All around the Humvee, the relentless snowfall caused the forest’s mantle to droop. While the cavalry soldiers traveled down the twisting pathway, the snow-covered evergreen branches a few feet overhead closed in tightly, blocking out the winter’s night sky.

  Usually, the familiar mile drive back to the cinder-block platoon building would go quickly. In the darkness and snow, however, Jensen carefully felt his way home.

  “Has there been any further word on our families?” Foster asked.

  “Nothing more than what they told us this morning. The wives and kids arrived at Rhein-Main last night and were being put on flights to the States.”

  “All headed to the States . . . When we get back to Regensburg in three days, it’s sure going to feel different with our families gone. Everybody’s going to be awfully lonely.”

  “Everybody except Ramirez,” Jensen said. “He’s never lonely. How many Frauleins is he presently engaged to?”

  “It changes from day to day,” Marconi said. “Last count I heard was six, give or take one or two.”

  “Yep, Ramirez won’t be lonely,” Foster said. “If there’s an attractive woman within five hundred miles, Ramirez will find her.”

  “No doubt about it, our little Ramirez is destined to be killed by an irate husband someday,” Jensen said.

  “If he doesn’t fall out of one of the towers first. That would sure disappoint the Frauleins in Regensburg,” Marconi added.

  “You know, I’ll bet our wives are back in the States right now, warm and cozy by the fire while the grandparents spoil the kids,” Foster said. “I’m sure my folks were waiting at the airport in Des Moines when Becky and the kids arrived. This’ll be the first time they’ve seen the baby.”

  The short journey reached its end. A few feet from the low-lying building, the platoon sergeant’s Humvee eased to a stop between Lieutenant Powers’s Humvee and the platoon’s five remaining Bradley Fighting Vehicles. The armored vehicles sat in the darkness beneath a foot of newly fallen powder.

  To the uninitiated, the platoon’s fighting vehicles could have been mistaken for tanks. Although they tipped the scales at nearly twenty-five tons, that was only half a tank’s weight. Nevertheless, with the Bradleys’ thick steel treads, tanklike shape, and full body armor, such a misidentification could easily occur. Yet the one recognizable feature that distinguished a Bradley Fighting Vehicle from a tank was the size and shape of its main gun. While the American primary battle tank, the M-1 Abrams, had a huge 120mm cannon, the Bradley’s was significantly smaller.

  The 25mm Bushmaster chain gun was extremely thin. Even so, with its armor-piercing Bushmaster and array of TOW missiles, the Americans’ Bradley Fighting Vehicles had proven capable in more than one war of standing up to even the most menacing enemy tank.

  The trio shook the snow from about their heads and headed toward the ancient building. A wave of moist heat greeted them as they entered the smaller of a pair of rooms. The drafty building was dank and gave off a distinctive odor from the thousands of cavalry soldiers who’d called it their temporary home over the years. A chorus of animated voices resounded from deeper within the old structure.

  Foster and Marconi passed through the anteroom that served as the platoon’s operations center. Jensen paused.

  Gregory Powers sat at a tired metal desk in the far corner. The blond-haired, blue-eyed second lieutenant was fiddling with the pipe he’d adopted when he took command of the platoon eight weeks earlier. The pipe was an attempt to give himself an air of authority. He seldom smoked the ordinary-looking pipe, but he played with it constantly. Powers, having finished the easier task of changing the shifts in the three Bradleys, had been sitting at the desk for the past twenty minutes.

  Ag
ainst the wall nearest the door, the platoon radio operator, Specialist Four Aaron Jelewski, sat reading a comic book. On the table in front of Jelewski was a pair of military radios. The first was tuned to the squadron frequency. The other’s dials were set to connect the platoon command post with the Bradleys, Humvees, and guard towers.

  Jelewski looked up as Jensen entered.

  “Anything going on?” Jensen asked.

  “Not much. Lots of talk on the squadron net about how busy Comrade is tonight. But nothing compared to what I heard you and Brownie discussing a few minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, when a Russian general’s willing to chance rushing the wire like that, something’s definitely up. One thing’s certain—you’ve got to have a death wish playing division-level war games in the middle of a blizzard.”

  “You’ve got that right, Sarge. Except, squadron says it’s not just the division in front of us that’s involved. Apparently, across the fifty-mile 1st Squadron area, there are ten Russian divisions racing around like madmen in the snow. And over the 150 miles of the American sector, there are twice that many. The British up north are reporting the same kind of activity.”

  “Squadron have any further information on what the Russians are up to?”

  “Nothing more than what they’ve been telling us for the past two weeks. This is still officially a war game the Russians are conducting to test their ability to defend Eastern Europe during winter. We’re to stay alert but avoid confrontation with them at all costs.”

  “Someone needs to tell that to that general who had his cannon pointed at my head.”

  “Maybe somebody did, Sarge,” Jelewski said.

  “Yeah, maybe they did. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Holler if you need me.”

  Stripping off his gear as he went, the platoon sergeant entered the larger living area. When he pulled the heavy parka from his head, he revealed his closely cropped hair, which was every bit as gray as the old soldier’s eyes.

  Inside the noisy room, the never-ceasing card games continued.

  When Jensen entered, a few members of the platoon lounged on double-decked bunks along the walls. But the majority of the cavalry soldiers were crowded around the three tables, playing in the games or hovering to pounce upon the slightest mistake by those involved.

  With a newly poured cup of strong coffee, Jensen wandered over to the farthest table. There, the three squad leaders not at the border, Staff Sergeants Cruz and Austin and Sergeant Renoir, along with his assistant squad leader, Sergeant Richmond, were involved in a furious game of pinochle.

  “Want to take on winners, Sarge?” Specialist Four Winston, standing next to Jensen, asked.

  “Wait a minute, Winston,” Cruz said. “I’m not giving up this seat for at least another hour. And Brown told me that when I relieve him, he wants my spot.”

  “Thanks for asking, Winnie,” Jensen said. “But I can’t right now. Got to go back in the other room and watch the lieutenant so he doesn’t hurt himself with that pipe.”

  Jensen’s comment met with laughter all around. It saved him from having to explain that the real reason he wasn’t interested in the game was his concern over what was happening on the other side of the snow-choked border.

  Cruz tossed a card on the table and looked up with a broad grin on his face. “You just don’t want to get your butt kicked again, Bob, that’s all.”

  “Fat chance. When’s the last time you two amateurs were able to beat me?” Jensen said.

  “I think it was what? About three thirty this afternoon, wouldn’t you say, Hector?” Austin said.

  “Sounds about right to me, Seth.”

  “You guys got lucky, and you know it.”

  When Cruz and Austin ignored his comment, Jensen wandered back into the operations center. He slumped into a cold metal chair next to Jelewski, glanced at his watch, and noted it was 10:40. Just over an hour before he would bundle himself in his wet winter gear once more and return to the blowing snows.

  • • •

  It turned out to be an uneventful hour. Jelewski made communication checks with squadron headquarters at 10:45 and with the towers and Bradleys at 11:00. The Russians continued to rumble through the furious snowstorm all along the Czech and Polish borders with Germany. Cruz and Austin humiliated their younger opponents. And the lieutenant played with his pipe.

  Late in the hour, Jensen removed three computer-generated cards from his shirt pocket. Printed on the cards were the names of his wife, Linda, and the couple’s teenage daughters. The cards had arrived yesterday. They were official notice that his family had left Regensburg. If all went well, in the next few days he would receive three additional cards for each of them as they cleared the hurdles on their way home to Texas.

  And in a short time, he knew he’d be clearing those same hurdles. In five weeks, Robert Jensen was scheduled to join his family in the small East Texas town that held such fond memories of his boyhood days. There he’d begin a long-overdue retirement.

  • • •

  11:40. Time to prepare the next shift to go forward to the border. Jensen shoved the cards into his shirt pocket and headed into the platoon living area.

  “All right, next shift get ready to move out.” He took his parka and gear off the bunk where he’d hung them earlier. “First groups for the towers and Bradleys in five minutes.”

  This was met with the usual pleas for “just one more hand” and some rather unkind comments about the veteran soldier’s parentage, which, with a smile on his weathered face, Jensen ignored.

  He grabbed his M-4 assault rifle and loaded a thirty-round clip of ammunition. Ready to return to the blizzard, Jensen stood in the middle of the living area, waiting for the pair of troopers scheduled for the northernmost tower.

  In the other room, the lieutenant got up and started to prepare himself to sally forth once more with a trio of soldiers for the farthest Bradley.

  Up and down the 150 miles of border under American control, scores of 4th Cavalry platoons were doing the same.

  • • •

  The platoon’s routine was suddenly broken.

  “Hey, Sarge! I think you’d better get in here!” Jelewski called out. “There’s something odd happening at the border.”

  The urgency in the radio operator’s voice was unmistakable.

  CHAPTER 3

  January 28—11:43 p.m.

  2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

  The German-Czech Border

  “What’s wrong?” Jensen asked the moment he entered the room.

  “Listen,” Jelewski said.

  “. . . can’t tell for sure, Brownie. So many coming toward the wire that I can’t count ’em all,” Sergeant Kelly, commanding the northern Bradley, said. There was no mistaking the fear dripping from each of Kelly’s anxious words.

  In the platoon’s operations center, Jelewski, Jensen, and Powers froze the instant they heard the compelling tone in the young soldier’s voice. Just then, the three replacements for Kelly’s Bradley, Specialists Winston and Johnson and Sergeant Reed entered the small room.

  “It’s the same here, Kelly,” Brown said. “There are a dozen tanks at the wire in front of me. Got BMPs in support, with infantry dismounting from most of them.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Wait one, Delta-Two-Two,” Brown said. “Delta-Two-Three, are you there?”

  “Roger, Brownie, we’re here,” came the excited reply from third squad’s Bradley, a mile south of Brown’s position. “Lots of them moving our way, too.”

  “Okay, Two-Three . . .” Brown said, pausing just long enough to make a final assessment of the utterly unanticipated situation. “All of you listen to me. Nobody panic. At this point, we’ve no idea what the Russians are up to. More than likely, it’s just another one of their stupid stunts. After tw
o weeks of staring across the border at us, that crazy general must’ve gone snow-blind. By now, the sorry bastard’s probably bored out of his skull. So he’s decided to have some fun at our expense. I know things look pretty grim at the moment. But we’re going to be just fine as long as we stay calm. Everybody take a deep breath and hold your ground. Keep your heads down and don’t do anything foolish until I find out what platoon wants us to do . . . Delta-Two, Delta-Two, this is Delta-Two-One.”

  “Go ahead, Two-One,” Jelewski said.

  “Jewels, is Jensen there?” Brown said, ignoring the likely presence of the lieutenant in the room.

  Jensen took the handset from Jelewski. “Roger, Brownie, go ahead.”

  “Sarge, we’ve got some really strange goings-on up here. The Russians have obviously lost their minds.”

  “How so, Brownie?”

  “I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know what to make of any of it. Things seemed perfectly normal until about three minutes ago. The Russians were playing their little war games just like they’d been doing all day. Their tanks and BMPs were racing around in the snows, making their mock attacks on each other. I was just sitting here halfheartedly watching their antics and counting the minutes until this shift was up. That’s when it happened.”

  “When what happened, Brownie?”

  “All hell broke loose, Sarge. Without warning, the Russian armor turned and raced at top speed across the snows straight for us. They came from every direction. And they didn’t stop until they’d reached the wire. But that’s not the worst of it. There are dismounted infantry in full battle dress pouring from the BMPs. I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. Everywhere I look, an endless stream of Russian armor’s moving toward the border. The other positions are reporting the same. What do you want us to do?”